A tear escaped down my cheek, and Blake caught it with his thumb in a gesture so achingly gentle that it made my chest tighten. I wanted to tell him he didn’t need to comfort me, that I should be the one wiping away his tears, though his eyes remained dry. Something twisted in my gut at the thought that maybe he’d shed all his tears long ago, in dark rooms, where no one had been there to catch them.
“I don’t want anyone to see,” he admitted quietly. “Every time I see them?—”
“I see strength,” I interrupted, my fingers hovering near the largest scar. I’d touched him before without asking, carried away by instinct and emotion, but I shouldn’t have done that.He deserved the dignity of being asked, of having control over who touched these marks of his past. “May I?”
After a long moment, he gave a slight nod, and something shifted between us: a wall crumbling, a bridge building. My fingertips traced the raised line across his rib cage, feeling its texture, its story. This wasn’t just skin I was touching; it was creating trust.
“I don’t ever want to feel that weak again.” The words seemed to cost him something to say.
“They don’t make you look weak.” I placed my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath my hand, strong and steady despite his apprehension. “They make you look like a warrior.”
For a moment, I saw something shift in his eyes, maybe a glimmer of relief or understanding. The muscles in his jaw relaxed, just slightly, but it felt enormous.
“Please don’t tell anyone.”
Swallowing the thickness in my throat, I shook my head.
“I would never do that to you,” I promised. “Never.”
Now, years later, those scars were hidden beneath beautiful ink. He’d chosen to write over that chapter of his story, but I’d never forget being the one who’d read it in its original text, written in scars and trust.
BLAKE
I remembered that intimate moment when Tessa found my scars and how instantly, and unendingly, my feelings for her intensified.
Which terrified me.
It scared me that Tessa could shoot me a smile from across the room, and it would ignite the air in my lungs with chemistry and desire. It scared me how helpless I was around her, my eyes constantly seeking her out, my ears straining for even a whisper of her angelic voice. But mostly, it scared me that my heart dangerously, recklessly dared to hope I could somehow be worthy of her.
As if someone could surgically remove the darkness that lived in my bones.
The harder I fell, the faster I ran.
History had taught me that everyone leaves. Foster families had mastered the art of rejection, each one finding increasingly creative ways to tell me I wasn’t quite what they were looking for. The door always clicked shut behind me with the same hollow finality.
So, I’d fought against my feelings for her. Hid them behind sarcasm and a foul mood, willing the unwanted feelings to go away because after a lifetime of collecting rejections like medical degrees, I couldn’t survive another.
Especially not from Tessa. If she pointed to the door, whatever was left of my soul would splinter into dust.
The problem? With other people, my defenses were reinforced with steel and sarcasm, but they might as well have been made of paper when it came to her. Fighting these feelings became exhausting. Like a drowning person trying to swim against the current to save themselves. Wild and desperate, yet infuriatingly ineffective.
I suppose it was only a matter of time before I’d lose the fight with that current.
That moment came two years ago when I’d had enough alcohol to dent my shield of better judgment. After staring at her across the room the entire night, after thinking about all the what-ifs, I couldn’t stop seeing her for what she was: a radiatingball of light, like the sun drifting through a party, unaware that she was illuminating everything in her space.
Later that night, I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering a moment too long. When she leaned in, the whiskey told me it meant something. Funny how alcohol has a way of making you forget every scar, every rejection, every reason you’re not good enough.
Especially for someone like Tessa Kincaid. Cupcake.
The kiss was soft, sweet and everything I’d imagined. For three seconds, I believed in miracles. Then reality crashed back like a cardiac arrest—her eyes wide with horror, three fingers pressed to her lips like she needed to erase the taste of me. She stammered something and fled, leaving me standing there like the idiot I was.
Her texts came later, filled with gentle letdowns and kind rejections, ones I couldn’t face at the time. Not in depth anyway. All I could do then was merely read them, not knowing how to respond.
But now. Now here she was. In my home.
More specifically, my bathroom, dripping with water and temptation …
Making me wonder, whyhadshe run away that night? Her texts had been elusive, more apologetic than explanatory. She’d been the only one I’d made an exception for—liquid courage or not—and she’d run away from me, just like everyone else. Why?
